


Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m.

by Berty



Series: The Highwayman [4]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:30:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack's already made his decision - now he just has to carry it out. 1st person POV snippet from the Highwayman 'verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday Morning, 3 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening line stolen from Messrs. Simon and Garfunkel.

I can hear the soft breathing of the man that I love as he lies here beside me, asleep with the night. I watch his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, gently marking time as he wanders where I cannot follow - through careless, happy dreams. I can't help but wonder if he dreams of me.

He looks so young like this; the nighttime soothes away the lines of experience and the weight of worry that he carries by day. I love to watch him sleep; rest is an easy price to pay to see him so undone. The darkness of his eyelashes against the cream of his skin, the way his lips are parted so softly, the way his hands curl when they are relaxed. His trust in me, that he sleeps so deeply, is overwhelming. And undeserved.

As enticing as it is to press close to him, breathe his scent and let it carry me into my own oblivion, I dare not close my eyes in case I should miss a single minute of this precious, peaceful joy. Because minutes are all I have now, and each time I glance up at the window, another star has set and the dawn, and my departure, are a little closer.

Tomorrow, all I will have is the memory of this to sustain me and warm me for as long as I live. Which won't be too long, if my suspicions are correct. And I'm rarely wrong about such things.

His skin is smooth and warm and tempting where the blankets have slid from his shoulders. It's cold in here, the fire in the grate is just the merest orange glow and I should cover him again, pull the eiderdown up to keep him warm, so he doesn't wake.

But I don't.

For a few minutes more, I'll look upon the beauty of him and store it up in my heart for the days that are coming. Because he is beautiful, his spirit and his face.

Dr. Daniel Jackson.

The man that I love.

And somehow, here in his bed, with the winter moonlight making his brown hair glow silver on my pillow, those words aren't frightening anymore. Forbidden. Sinful. Unforgivable. But not frightening. And what do I care for the others?

People might say that I was a sinner already, or that I didn't have far to fall.

People might say that a broken heart is the least of what I deserve.

People might say that I am a villain and a thief and that any fool knows the price to be paid for a life like mine.

But I've never killed a man who didn't shoot at me first, and I've never stolen more than I was owed. And I'd never known a minute's regret over my decision until I met Daniel.

A cold heart will carry you further than you might imagine; in my case, away from my home, over the sea and into a life of thievery and sin. I would never have actively sought out a soul like Daniel's; I was confident in my chosen path. But he has thawed my heart and my resolve in a way that even time could not.

And now I know very well the flavour of regret; it is my constant companion. I regret that I have known him for only a year. I regret that I didn't know him sooner, so he could have purged me of the hate and bitterness that have put me on this path to the gallows. I regret that we do not live in a world where we could love openly. And I regret that I have to leave him in just a few more minutes. Without a goodbye. Without an explanation.

I have known more serenity in the last few months than at any time in my life, and that is all down to the man beside me, sleeping all unknowing.

When the soldiers came and seized my family's home and land, I thought I would never know a moment's peace again. They said it was for reasons of faith and treason. I say it was for greed. They killed my father, the English - oh, not directly, not swiftly like a blade through the heart, but slowly, incrementally. He died of shame and of sorrow. In poverty. I had to watch him die, and my mother soon after, and the blackness in my heart grew day by day until there was nothing left but that.

I lived on only for the chance to recover what they had taken from us.

Sometimes I dreamed of taking it from their flesh, but, for my sins, I was brought up in their image, bred to be a reasonable man, and killing the people indirectly responsible for my misfortune was a thing I wasn't prepared to do.

So I took from them what they had taken from me.

Money. Security. Pride.

I was good at it. I had flair, an education and manners.

They called me Gentleman Jack, a title I embraced and loathed in equal measure. Perhaps my voice gave me away, I don't know. But three days ago I stopped a coach on the road to London bearing the crest of the Mortimers, a family I knew to have had a hand in the confiscation of my father's land. But inside, instead of Sir Robert Mortimer, was a man who had known me while I was at school over here. He recognized me. He called me by name. And I knew that I was finished.

There are posters up with a hefty price beneath my name. My likeness is pinned to the door of every tavern from Kent to Devonshire. I have evaded two attempts to capture me already; I doubt my luck will hold for a third. I should have fled the country immediately, gone to the Low Countries or to France.

But I didn't.

I had to see him one last time.

It was selfish of me. Foolish to endanger him so, even though I took every precaution in getting here. I just couldn't endure the thought that I'd never touch him again, never kiss his mouth or hear his gentle laughter. I know the day that is creeping softly into the sky as I lay here will probably be my last. And now I have spent these few hours in his arms, I'm content for it to be so. I can leave here... and leave him... and face whatever daylight brings.

This night has been everything I'd hoped for. I came to his door after dark. He greeted me with warm words and warmer kisses. He's the most generous of men and no matter how long I have been away, he makes room for me in his life and welcomes me into his bed. He's usually a physical and demanding lover and I must admit that I relish the nights when he has pit his strength against mine, muscle for muscle and push for shove. We're a good match.

But this night he was happy to let me have my way, content to lay pliant while my hands and lips committed his body to memory. He trembled and gasped when I took him so slowly. His eyes were wide and shadowed in the feeble light of the candle and his hands clutched at my forearms, more eloquent than any words could have been.

Later, when he drifted into sleep, sweaty, smiling and exhausted, I kissed his eyes, his lips, his brow and began my vigil, watching him rest one final time.

And now I can delay no longer. I cannot fool myself that the sky does not lighten through the windowpane. The green of the dawning sky extinguishes the remaining stars, one-by-one until even the most brilliant is faded to nothing.

He mutters softly as I slip from his bed, curling into the warmth where I have lain. I dress as silently as I can, only the soft clink of my buckle and the whisper of material on skin to be heard.

Finally I stand at his bedside, my boots in my hand. I touch his cheek with fingers that shake, and trace the shape of his jaw. He won't be surprised; I'm never here when he wakes. And I won't burden him with what this day will bring. He'll hear the news soon enough, I should imagine. And he will curse my name so harshly that I will probably hear it in hell.

But he will be safe.

He rolls his head a little and sighs, and I press a kiss into his hair, savouring the silkiness of it against my lips.

"Love you, J'ck," he whispers to his dreams and I freeze.

We've never exchanged those words before. They've crowded my throat a hundred times or more, but I've never set them free. Uncharacteristic tears burn my eyes, my heart swells in my chest, choking me, making it impossible to breathe. I long to hold him, to crush him to me, to feel the solidness of his flesh and the warmth of his skin. And to never let go.

Never, ever let him go.

But I can't.

And that is a greater pain than anything the militia can do to me.

So this will be our last moment and my parting gift will be one he'll never hear.

"And I... I love you, Daniel," I tell him, no more than a whisper.

Then I turn and leave, walk out of his house and into the quiet dawn.

I don't look back.

Fin


End file.
